


(the weight of) the ring on your finger

by venvephe



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Mutual Pining, Platonic Cuddling, Scent Kink, Scents & Smells, Wedding Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-11
Updated: 2019-08-11
Packaged: 2020-08-19 05:11:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20204284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/venvephe/pseuds/venvephe
Summary: "Marry me," Auston blurts.Mitch freezes, his fidgeting hands coming to a standstill as he stares, wide-eyed, into Auston's face."I mean," Auston almost stammers, "marryme. If you have to choose a knuckle-dragging alpha. Choose one you can actually, uh. Tolerate.""And that's you," Mitch says, disbelieving.





	(the weight of) the ring on your finger

**Author's Note:**

  * For [plothole](https://archiveofourown.org/users/plothole/gifts).

> For plothole - what's more fun than one prompt? Putting two prompts in a blender and seeing what happens! I certainly didn't expect it to get as long as it did, but with such fun material to work with, I can't say I'm totally surprised. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> All my love to M and S, who were invaluable cheerleaders and betas over the course of writing this one.
> 
> A small note - the hockey in this isn't super accurate around when they were traveling where, etc, though it takes place in the fall of the 2017-2018 season. More or less, I moved the November game vs VGK to Vegas rather than Toronto! It's important, I swear.
> 
> Enjoy!

It’s around their second stretch of home games that Auston really starts to notice that something’s wrong with Mitch.

Listen - it’s not as if he’s a complete blockhead and doesn’t notice his friends’ moods. Auston thinks that of anyone on the team, he’s one of the closest to Mitch. It’s just that - well, at the start of the season, it's easy to get drawn into the hype, the excitement of having everyone together again, throw yourself into the gauntlet that is training and camp and media scrums and that heady, heady feeling of being on the ice again after so long.

It’s not an excuse, he tells himself. It’s just - maybe it isn’t that it took so long for him to notice, exactly, as it just took a little while for it to actually _ happen. _

He’ll admit to himself that hockey players _ are_, by and large, blockheads - but Auston isn’t. At least, not when it comes to Mitch Marner.

Not about Mitch himself, at least.

He skates up to Mitch at practice, where he’s shifting his weight from skate to skate as he waits against the boards. Mitch gives him a brief smile, and then a larger one when Auston hip-checks him. His eyes are so, so blue - even more so against the white practice jersey he’s got on today.

“You good?” Auston asks, something stirring in the pit of his stomach. It’s not anything he can put his finger on, exactly - a subtle change in Mitch’s smell, maybe? The way his smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes? It can’t just be that - 

“Oh, y’know,” Mitch says, shrugging one shoulder. The tight lines around his mouth haven’t disappeared, even when he shoots Auston another half-smile. That something in Auston’s belly twists and curdles. “Just _ dandy.” _

Sarcasm aside, the fact that Mitch isn’t already chattering his ear off is more than enough to put Auston on alert. 

“Doesn’t sound like it,” Auston says, tapping at Mitch’s skate with his own. “Did you get replaced by an alien? The _ real _ Mitchy would be bitching about the presence of Justin Beiber on this practice playlist, like he isn’t guilty of singing along at full volume when he comes up on his _ own _ playlist, and -”

“Hey!” Mitch gasps dramatically, putting a hand to his chest like a Victorian heroine taking full offense, and then completely ruining the look by leaning in to give Auston a facewash with his sweat-damp glove. 

Well, _ attempts _ to.

The resulting scuffle turns into a bit of a tickle fight, if it's possible to have one while wearing hockey gloves, but that doesn't stop Auston and Mitch from trying. It's only when Mo skates up to them, stopping hard enough to throw snow onto their skates, that they pull apart, gasping for breath.

"You kids gonna run drills, or am I gonna have to put you in time out?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"It's called the penalty box, _ Morgan_," Mitch says, panting. Auston hides his grin in his hand, under the pretense of adjusting his chin-strap. Mitch smells a little more normal, now. Probably a little more like Auston, too, which is neither here nor there, but. He's smiling again, a full-blown Mitchy smile, lips wide and cheeks pink, and Mo rolls his eyes at them. 

"That's right - and don't forget that I have the power to put you there."

"During _ practice_?" Auston asks, "Whatever, dad."

The whistle blows before Mo can reply again, so he just flips them off as he pushes off and skates away, leaving the two of them to exchange raised eyebrows before they, too, head for the other end of the rink. Mitch gives him a playful, don't-worry-we're-still-friends pat on the ass as well as a waggled eyebrows this-isn't-over look when they part at the blue line, and Auston can't help but smirk back at him - but still. Now that he's looking, there are faint bags under Mitch's eyes too, a rigidity in his shoulders that doesn't sit natural on his frame, as lean as he already is. 

Something's up. Auston knows it.

\---

He catches it after the next game - after another game that was goal-less and point-less for Mitch, one in a frustrating string of many. Auston knows it’s been happening, hasn’t said much of anything to Mitch himself - he gets enough of it from the Toronto media and the blogs, he doesn’t need to hear it from Auston, too. Not that Auston would say much of anything besides encouragement, because yeah, nearly a dozen games in a drought isn’t great, but it’s early days yet.

Anyway: he only sees it for the first time after the game, but it’s definitely not the first time it happens. He can tell from the way Mitch’s toque is pulled low, his mouth set in a grim line.

Mitch is being ushered out of one of the offices, a thin envelope clenched in one hand. His knuckles are as pale as his face, which looks almost gaunt in the harsh lighting of the rink. Auston only catches the moment from down the hall before Mitch disappears through another door, into the depths of Scotiabank. 

Even from only seeing a glimpse of his face and the crumple of paper in his hand, Auston knows it’s a retreat.

He glances back towards the office door - but it doesn’t hold any more clues than Mitch’s behavior does. Auston sniffs, running a hand through his damp hair and out of his eyes. He doesn’t mean to, really, but he can still scent Mitch on the air a little - how he usually smells fresh from a game and a shower, overlaid with the bitter tang of nervousness that isn’t like Mitchy at all.

A pit of nerves has taken up residence in Auston’s gut again, small but insistent. And it’s telling him what he’s already begun to suspect: whatever’s up with Marns, it’s got to do with _ this, _ weird clandestine meetings with management that he’s not even telling _ Auston _about.

\---

Mitch smells mostly fine by the next time Auston sees him, which is when he goes over to get his ass kicked in Call of Duty after morning skate. It’s not so much that he makes an effort to notice Mitch’s scent as it is - well. The usual.

_ The usual _ is Auston nearly getting elbowed in the kidney when Marns makes some flailing, limbs-akimbo gesture as he tries to evade a rocket launcher in-game, an absurd amount of incoherent noise coming out of his mouth as he does so. The risk of bodily harm around Mitch Marner and his various pointy bits is probably higher, Auston thinks, though it doesn’t help matters that Mitch is basically in his lap. 

Hence the smell: he can’t _ not _ catch a whiff of Mitchy’s scent off the back of his neck, still a little damp at the nape from his recent shower. It’s - Auston’s nostrils flare, and he tries to stop himself from breathing deep, but it’s kind of a lost cause. Mitch is distracted, anyhow. Auston catches the crisp summer lake-breeze and sunshine, the citrus brightness of lemonade, the layer of something vaguely spiced and vaguely sweet that he can never quite put his finger on. 

Pretty normal Mitch, all things considered. He smells like himself, if a little heavy on the lemon today.

Auston’s surprised out of his thoughts when Mitch flops back against him, tossing the controller to the other end of the couch and going limp on an exhale that turns into a groan. The sound snaps something in Auston’s blood to attention, and he pats Mitch’s hip in consolation to distract himself from how thoroughly Mitch has plastered himself to Auston’s body. 

“_Fifth,” _ he groans, toes curling against the carpet as he stretches. Where they’re pressed together, Auston can feel the sinuous clench-and-release of Mitch’s calves and thighs and back, lithe and firm against him. He swallows, tries not to be too obvious about inhaling again at the back of Mitch’s neck. “I’m never gonna break the top three.”

“You lasted a lot longer than I did, bud,” Auston says, digging out his own controller from where it got buried half-underneath his thigh and lobbing it to join Mitch’s. God, what does _ he _ smell like right now, to Mitch? A swirling cocktail of sticky-sweet vice-like restraint, and attempt at normal bro friendliness? Mostly his sisters wrinkle their noses and tell him he smells like damp hockey gear and cactus pears.

“Don’t worry, we’ll find the game for you yet,” Mitchy says, interrupting himself with a yawn. He squirms, rearranges his limbs so they’re tucked together, a long line of contact from shoulder to knee. He rests his head against Auston’s shoulder and yawns a second time, eyelashes brushing his cheek. “Even if you suck at ‘Chel forever.”

“Thanks, Marns,” Auston sighs, too comfortable to put the bite behind the sarcasm. He’s moments away from yawning, too.

They lapse into companionable quiet and just breathe, the game’s music soft and far away as they drift in and out of dozing. Auston skims his fingers up and down Mitchy’s back, gentle enough that he can only just feel the bleed of heat through his tee. Mitch smells good. Settled. 

But - 

“You’d tell me if something is wrong, right?” Auston finds himself saying, dream-like, the words coming out before he really meant them to. His voice is barely a murmur into Mitch’s soft mop of hair.

Mitch tilts his head up just enough to open an eye and glances sideways at Auston, blinking slowly. His single visible eyebrow furrows, and he makes a soft scoffing noise before nuzzling back down into Auston’s shoulder.

“’Course I would,” Mitch says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and something unspools in Auston’s chest, releases the constricting vines of worry around his heart. “I tell you everything. You’re my best friend.”

Auston swallows, resumes the slow track of his fingertips. 

“Yeah,” he replies. “I know.”

Mitch will tell him when he’s ready.

\---

The thing is -

The thing is, Auston can’t forget the fact that Mitch is an omega.

He likes to think he’s been doing an admirable job of _ trying, _ though, over the course of time that they’ve been teammates turned friends turned best bros. Mitch is so, so much more than just an omega. To reduce him to just his secondary gender is a complete disservice to who Mitch is as a person.

That’s what Auston tells himself, but it’s also true. If only more of the hockey world could see that. 

But just because he can acknowledge that Mitch is more than _ just _ an omega doesn’t mean that he can ignore the fact completely. He wants to - well. Auston wants to be able to ignore it because that’s the right thing to do as Mitchy’s friend, and it would be a dick move to let that color their relationship. 

More than that - he wants to be able to forget it because it would make this _ unrequited crush _ business a hell of a lot easier.

Maybe then, Auston would be a little less in tune with Mitch’s scent, how freshly like himself Mitch smells coming out of the locker room shower, how his scent becomes dominated by summer-sunshine-joy when his favorite song comes on the radio, as intoxicating as flowers must be to bees. He smells just as amazing during the quiet moments as he does in the big ones - when Auston brings him Starbucks, when there’s those weird power bars he likes on the plane, when he scores a goal - Auston hasn’t been _ meaning _ to, exactly, but he’s been cataloging all of the subtle ways Mitch smells good. Different, ever-changing, but good.

It’s the exact opposite of the _ chill _ Auston tries so hard to maintain.

And it’s not like he thinks he has a snowball’s chance in hell, really - he’s listened to Mitch’s scathing opinion of alphas in the NHL and alpha-dominated sports culture in general. Auston knows Mitch has an uphill fight to prove all of them wrong, and he doesn’t blame him in the slightest if it has made his attitude somewhat...uncharitable towards alphas, especially traditional ones.

Auston isn’t a traditional alpha, not by a long shot. But he is enough of a dumbass to be in love with his best friend, and can’t help that he’s an alpha at the same time.

So he can’t forget - not when, maybe in a different universe, things might have worked out differently for them. Auston doesn’t let himself imagine it. 

Having hockey and Mitch as his best friend is enough. No one’s lucky enough to have two dreams come true.

\---

Mitch has a bad game. Mitch has a pretty bad game in a _ string _of bad games.

Auston knows he’s not imagining it, now, when Mitch blows by him and out of the locker room, eyes red and mouth set in a firm line. 

Mo watches him go too, heaving a sigh and giving Auston a one-shouldered shrug when he catches his gaze.

“He hasn’t told me, if you’re wondering,” Mo says quietly, pulling off his jersey with jerky movements. Mitch’s play aside, it hadn’t been a great game for _ any _ of them. “I figured he’d go to you first.”

Auston swallows. He’d thought so, too.

Mitch’s truck is still there, when Auston gets out to the garage twenty minutes later - he did his best to hustle through post-game interviews and a quick shower, but sometimes there’s no escaping quickly in Toronto. Auston’s mostly relieved that Mitch didn’t just _ leave _, squirrel himself away to deal with - whatever this is. He doesn’t really want to press Mitch further than what he wants to tell Auston on his own, but he can’t take it anymore - not when Mitch is clearly so miserable.

He shouldn’t be so drawn and pale and stressed - not ever, and not about hockey. 

Auston climbs up into Mitch’s truck, trying to let his concern for Mitch balloon into courage to finally, _ finally _ bring this up and get it out - but Mitch’s _ smell. _ It hits Auston like a punch in the gut; thin, almost briney, so clearly laced with turmoil and disgust that it completely drowns out the usual green grass and summer breeze. 

“Mitch,” Auston breathes, barely able to get the word out of his throat. _ This _ is what Mitch has been choking down?

“Sorry I didn’t -” Mitch starts, flexing his fingers around the steering wheel. His knuckles are clenched white, visible even in the half-darkness. “Should’ve told you sooner, rather than - but I hoped I’d just play _ better _ and the problem would fix itself, and…”

_ It didn’t_, Mitch doesn’t say, but Auston hears it anyway. Mitch _ hasn’t _ been playing, hasn’t climbed his way out of the point drought. With every game that passes it’s gotten worse - the rumors, the press, the pressure - 

“This isn’t about just sending you down, is it?” Auston says quietly, a guess; Mitch shakes his head, and his shoulders slump further.

“Worse than that,” he mutters, and Auston’s eyebrows furrow. He’s heard those rumors and they suck, but they’re not a surprise. Then what…?

Mitch sighed and slumps forward, resting his forehead on his hands. He shoots Auston a sideways look, his mouth a grim line. He looks far more exhausted than just the regular amount of tired that happens post-hockey game, and it makes Auston’s heart ache in his chest. “It’s management.”

"Mana - what are they saying now?"

"What they _ want," _Mitch says, voice muffled as he talks into his hands, "is for me to be producing points again. To settle down and _ score. _ And they think the way for that to happen is for me, the unpredictable, hormonal _ omega _, to get bonded to an alpha."

_ Bonded to an alpha. _ Auston reels, his mind spinning.

"Bonded? To an alpha? As if that's - " As if that's actually how playing hockey fucking _ works_, Auston thinks, those old-fashioned sports macho _ assholes _ \- 

"I know," Mitch says, quietly, _ defeated_, and it’s not _ okay _ with Auston anymore, to watch him like this, to smell how miserable he’s become.

Auston grits his teeth, and wrenches himself out of the truck.

He has to put his hands on his knees and double nearly in half as he pants, trying to clear his head - from the unexpected surge of rage and from the overwhelming scent Mitch is putting off. It’s all brine and bitter greens; Auston’s nostrils flare as he tries to suck in the chill night air. 

If there’s anything in his power to make sure Mitch never smells like that again - 

It’s on an exhale that he returns to standing, wiping his sweat-damp palms on his slacks. His body moves before he’s made the conscious decision, rounding to the driver’s side of the car, tugging gently at the door and cracking it open slowly.

Mitch is so, so pale in the weird orange light of the garage. Auston doesn’t think he’s imagining the uncertainty in his eyes, unusually dark in the half-light.

“Let me drive,” Auston says, almost surprised to find himself out of breath. He swallows, tries to steady his voice. It’s nearly shaking with nerves, with rage. “Let me take you home.”

Mitch licks his lips, and nods.

\---

Auston takes Mitch home.

Auston takes Mitch home to _ his apartment, _ as if he needs a bigger slap-in-the-face reminder that his instincts are going into overdrive with the urge to protect Mitch. His heartbeat doesn’t slow until he’s bustled Mitch through his front door, thrown a pair of sweats and shirt at him for him to change out of his game-day suit, and watched him emerge from the bathroom with bare feet and the hood of Auston’s Leafs hoodie pulled over his head.

He looks better already, more color back in his cheeks, and the dumb, prideful alpha part of his hind-brain nearly preens. Auston tangles their fingers and leads Mitch towards the touch.

Mitch _ smells _ better too, now that he’s out of the car and out of the suit. It was almost reeking of stress and sweat and the pheromones steeped in misery Mitch was oozing out - how long had he been sitting in his truck, waiting for Auston to come out? Waiting to finally tell him, stewing in his own misery and anger and helplessness?

Auston bullies Mitch into his favorite spot on the couch, pushing down the righteous indignation he feels on Mitch’s behalf. He’s an alpha, but he’s Mitch’s best friend _ first. _ It’s not about what Auston feels right now.

The fact that Mitch is _ letting _ Auston take care of him says a lot. But Auston also needs to hear it all from him. First things first.

"So by management," Auston says slowly, carefully, "You mean - who? Front office, Babs…?"

"Any and all of the above," Mitch says on an exhale. He settles sideways on the couch, back against the armrest and feet in Auston's lap, curled into him like a comma. Auston doesn't mind - he never minds, when it's Mitch - and he wraps a broad hand around Mitch's bony ankle. It's grounding for the both of them, he thinks.

He doesn't examine it too closely when his instinct is to thoughtlessly rub gentle circles into the arch of Mitch's foot with his thumb.

"They think the reason I'm not scoring, or producing points or whatever, is because I'm the only omega on the team - an unbonded omega," Mitch half-mumbles into his shoulder. His fingers twist and fidget with the string pulls of his borrowed hoodie. "They're old-fashioned enough to think that matters, and that the fix is to get me married off and bonded. And then I'll be _ useful to the team _ again. Because that's how hockey _ works _."

Auston's at a loss, his gut souring at Mitch's tone, hearing the repeated words. "That's what they've been telling you?"

"That's what they believe."

"Mitch," Auston squeezes his ankle, waits until Mitch pulls his gaze away from the middle distance and meets his eyes. "This is _ bullshit. _ You know that's not… that isn't how playing hockey happens, there’s no magic point-scoring answer, and that's _ not _how the rest of the team sees you. You’re not a fucking - burden, or whatever, for having a rut early in the season, and you’re not just an omega to anybody, either.”

Quiet settles over the apartment as Auston’s words hang in the air between them - until Mitch heaves a sigh and hums, closed-mouth, a sound that doesn’t need a word for Auston to know Mitch doesn’t quite believe him.

“If anything,” Auston continues, “you’re kind of a loud-mouth asshole who gets into everyone’s business, who has giant feet and bad taste in music, and drools if you let him nap on your shoulder on the plane- ”

“Hey!” Mitch objects, although a small smile has worked its way onto his face. He pulls his hands out of the kangaroo pocket of the hoodie and reaches over to fuck with Auston’s hair, mussing it up with his fingers before Auston can squirm away. He doesn’t need to know that tonight, Auston doesn’t try particularly hard to escape him. “You _ like _ me and my drool.”

Auston very, very carefully does not think too hard about that and the mental image it inspires. “You’re all right, I guess,” he demurs with a tilt of his head, and Mitch kicks him in the thigh.

“Some motivational speaker you are,” Mitch rolls his eyes, and heaves another Herculean sigh. He scrubs his fingers through his hair, leaving it haphazardly sticking at all angles. It’s unfairly cute, for how serious the conversation is. “What am I gonna do, Aus? They’ve essentially given me an _ ultimatum _ . I agree to get married and bonded to some knuckle-dragging alpha on the team - no offense - and bow down to management’s old-fashioned alpha-masculine superiority _ bullshit_, or I’m sent down again. Maybe for good, for not doing what they wanted. Or worse, get _ traded.” _

It's not hard for Auston to grimace at that. It's the thing Mitch has been worried about since the summer - and he hates that it's a real threat to them playing together.

That doesn't explain how the next words out of his mouth completely bypass his brain filter before he can call them back.

"Marry me," Auston blurts.

Mitch freezes, his fidgeting hands coming to a standstill as he stares, wide-eyed, into Auston's face.

"I mean," Auston almost stammers, "marry _ me. _ If you have to choose a knuckle-dragging alpha. Choose one you can actually, uh. Tolerate."

"And that's you," Mitch says, disbelieving. His forehead creases as he tries to raise his eyebrows and frown at the same time.

Auston shrugs one shoulder, going for casual when sweat has broken out at the nape of his neck, his heart hammering in his chest. God, what was he _ thinking?_ There's half a dozen people that Mitch could choose from ahead of Auston who would also be willing to help him out. "Maybe. If you want."

Mitch looks down at the hoodie tie he's twisting between his fingers, picking at the plastic aglet where it's started to fray. "You'd do that for me?"

The softness of Mitch's voice nearly breaks Auston's heart all over again. He gives Mitch's ankle a reassuring squeeze. This answer, at least, doesn't need any filter when it comes so painfully naturally. "Of course. Anything you need."

Stillness settles over the apartment again as Mitch bows his head, eyes focused somewhere around his knees as they sit together, quiet. Auston swallows around the heavy lump in his throat, his words ringing in his ears. He’s being the polar opposite of chill - he _ feels _ the polar opposite of chill, his face aflame with what must be a record-breaking blush - but he couldn’t stop himself from saying the truth. It’s _ Mitch. _

The corner of Mitch’s mouth twitches up in a half-smile a second before he speaks. “We have a game coming up in Vegas, you know. Could stop by a little white chapel while we’re there.”

Auston’s heart does a backflip. When Mitch meets his gaze, he full-on grins - probably at the dumbstruck expression Auston knows is on his own face. “You - we’re - ”

“Doing this?” Mitch shrugs. “It’s better than any of the ideas I came up with on my own. And it’s like you said - you’re at least tolerable, eh?”

“Fuck you,” Auston says reflexively, without heat, and Mitch _ laughs. _ He hadn’t realized how much he missed the sound until Mitch is collapsing forward into his shoulder, muffling his giggles into Auston’s shirt. “Your proposals need work. You shouldn’t insult the person you just agreed to _ marry.” _

“_You’re _ the one that proposed,” Mitch points out, squirming against him until Auston has no choice but to lift his arm and drape it over Mitchy’s shoulders to keep him still. He resolutely ignores the blush on his face - Mitch is right, after all. “You’ve got no game, but you’ll do.”

Mitch pats his knee, and Auston rolls his eyes. This, at least, is slightly more familiar territory.

\---

It’s amazing how quickly things move after that.

The season is always a whirlwind of eat and sleep and hockey, practices and games and plane rides and naps stolen wherever he can get them. But now - it’s like Auston blinks, and they’re in Vegas.

He’d thought Marns meant it as a joke, really, but he must have talked with management - he sends an overly-long string of emojis as Auston’s packing a bag for the road trip, and Auston spends nearly a full minute squinting down at his phone before he gets a follow-up text that confirms it.

Mitch: 🤵🤵💍🍰🏜️🎰😳👍

Mitch: _after morning skate tomorrow_

Auston stares. After morning skate, tomorrow in Vegas. In a little more than 24 hours, he’ll be married. In a little more than 24 hours, he’ll be married to _ Mitch Marner. _

He hasn’t even told his _ mom _ yet.

\---

Mitch barnstorms his hotel room after practice and before - before. Auston can’t say he’s surprised, really - even the morning skate coach put them through hadn’t dampened the nervous, excited energy buzzing through him. Mitch’s energy level seems to naturally be that of an Energizer bunny, so it makes sense that he pushes into Auston’s room once he cracks the door open, already talking.

“Sorry, sorry,” he says, pacing a track up and down the carpet until Auston gives him such a Look™ that he sits, wiping his damp palms on the legs of his dress pants. God, he’s wearing his game-day best - Auston swallows. This is really happening. “I know you’re not supposed to, like. See your spouse right before you get married, for luck and whatever- ”

“Chill, Marns,” Auston says, “We’re best friends and it’s not like this marriage is - uh. Traditional.”

_ Marriage. _ The word feels heavy in his mouth, so official and binding and - yeah, that’s the _ point _, but it all feels like it’s happening so fast. He’d never take back the offer to do this for Mitch, but - well, Auston’s starting to realize he maybe didn’t know what he was getting himself into.

Mitch quirks a half-smile and then flops backwards onto the bed, stretching his stupidly long limbs. Auston steals his glance away from the taut stretch of Mitch’s dress shirt over his lean belly and chest. He never seems to realize what he looks like, like this. But maybe it’s just that Auston notices it more than he should. “It’s about that, actually. The marriage thing.”

Auston feels his shoulders stiffen, and he turns away from the mirror to face Mitch again. “If you’re having second thoughts…”

“No, no,” Mitch sits up on his elbows, waving away Auston’s concern, “I still think this is a good idea. I just - you know what this means, right? What we’re getting ourselves into? It’s not just, like, _ sign here, I now pronounce you Mr. Marns-Matthews, take your ring pop and be on your way? _ It’s - they’re going to expect it to look pretty real.”

Auston blinks and frowns, trying to process the words he just heard. “You think they give out ring pops at Las Vegas weddings?”

“_That’s _ what you took away from that?” Mitch groans, and slumps back again. He shakes his head ruefully at the ceiling. “Dude, this is more than just fake-marrying me. This is fake-marrying me, a _ bachelor omega, _ playing into whatever sexist hockey fantasy front office believes by living as a bonded pair! So that my hockey gets better!”

“That’s...yeah,” Auston purses his lips, “that’s the point of why we’re doing this - at least the tricking front office part. I knew what I said yes to.”

“Did you? Do you?” Mitch sighs, covering his face with his hands, and that’s when Auston gives up the pretense of trying to knot his tie and goes to sit next to him, hip-to-hip. He puts a hand on Mitch’s knee, squeezing in what he hopes is comfort.

It gets Mitch to peek through his fingers at him, at least.

“What are you so worried about?” Auston asks. He swallows thickly. “I mean - not that I’m not worried, or nervous, because this is a big deal - but we’re best friends, man. You know me better than anyone. You don’t think we can pull this off?”

Mitch peers at him for another moment, quiet, before he drops his hands and closes his eyes. “I don’t want to get bonded,” he exhales on another sigh. “It’s - it’s stupid, but the dumb romantic part of me wants to get bonded someday for love, not - “

He waves a hand vaguely in the air, and Auston’s throat closes. “Not like this.”

“Not for fucking _ Babs _ or Kyle or anybody else but me,” Mitch nods. He cracks an eye open to look at Auston, and fuck - it shouldn’t strike Auston in the chest like this, how blue his eyes are in the dim hotel room light. “I wouldn’t want it to be anybody else but you, but. It’s still a big deal to me, to be bonding when it wasn’t my choice, really.”

“Yeah,” Auston says, throat dry, trying to focus on the point of contact on where his hand is warm against Mitch’s knee rather than the way his heart feels like it’s crumpling in his chest. _ God, _ Mitchy. He wouldn’t wish this bullshit on anyone. But...something sparks, in the back of his brain. “You don’t think… we could fake that, too?”

Mitch sits up so fast he nearly breaks Auston’s nose with his head. “Do you think so? How?”

Auston blanches a little, heat rising to his cheeks. “I mean, I don’t - how do they even check for a bond, anyway? Don’t they have to take our word for it?”

It’s a little unsettling, how perfectly Mitch has perfected the raised-eyebrow, _ I-am-speaking-to-a-numbnuts-alpha _ look. Actually, now that it’s pointed at him, Auston’s thankful that he doesn’t get it more often - he’s seen it leveled at the other guys in the locker room more times than he can count. “Pheromones, for one. And they’ll want to see the bite.”

It probably also says something about Auston himself, actually, and how little he allows himself to think of Mitch as an omega that the thought hadn’t even crossed his mind. Pretty much everything is secondary to hockey, and playing together, and y’know - seeing Mitch as a _ person _ and not his gender, which is something the NHL is apparently incapable of doing. 

He shrugs one shoulder, trying to be casual. “I’ll bite you.”

Mitch stares at him, wide-eyed.

“Not like -” Auston’s face flames, “not like an actual bond bite, just something to - um, make the point they’re looking for. And we spend enough time together anyway that we probably _ already _ smell enough like each other that we just gotta start sharing clothes or something.”

As he talks, Mitch’s expression has slowly shifted from wordless shock to cautious consideration, brows furrowed as he thinks. “It can’t - it can’t be that simple, can it?”

“Won’t know ‘til we try,” Auston says, finishing with his tie and turning his attention to his cuff links. _ And you’re worth trying for, _ Auston adds, wishing he could will away the pink that still stains his cheeks. Mitch hums, and then stretches again - starfishing on the bed as he always does best. 

Auston can only hope that all this _ does _ work, and Mitch can go back to being normal and relaxed. Well, as normal as Mitch ever is - like a border collie with access to an espresso machine. But they should be worried about _ hockey _ , not whatever old-fashioned-alpha gender bullshit is being pulled on Mitch and upending his life. Nobody deserves this, least of all _ Mitch. _

When he glances up at Mitch, there’s a small smile on his face, his eyes trained on Auston as he watched him struggle with his shirt-cuffs. “Dude, we’re getting _ married.” _

“It would be easier to take seriously if you didn’t start that sentence with _ dude,” _ Auston says, but shuffles over when Mitch motions with his hands. His fingers are long, and warm, when they circle Auston’s wrist - over the cuff, but Mitchy is always warm, and the heat bleeds through.

God, he shouldn’t be blushing at the slightest contact like a _ romance novel heroine,_ but he’s about to get capital-M Married to Mitch Marner, so Auston can’t even complain that his life isn’t actually a romance at this point.

And that’s not even starting on how good Mitch _ smells _.

“We can work on our pet names _ after _ we’re actually married,” Mitch has the nerve to say, clasping one of Auston’s cuff links and dropping his hand to take up the other. “First things first, eh? Gotta go get you that ring pop.”

He gives Auston a blinding smile, and Auston’s helpless against how he immediately melts, something in the vicinity of his heart going gooey and soft. It’s been too long since Mitch has given him a smile like that, and it’s - it’s a lot, to think that Auston put it there.

They’re getting _ married. _ Hopefully Auston will get to put that smile on Mitchy’s face all the time.

“Let’s go knot it up,” Mitch says, dropping Auston’s wrist and standing from the bed like a spring. He punctuates his words with a waggle of his eyebrows, and pats Auston’s ass as he heads for the door.

Yeah. It’s actually happening. Auston is marrying _ Mitch. _

\---

There aren’t ring pops, but there _ are _ actual rings. Auston hadn’t - he should have expected it, obviously, but there was no way he could have foreseen this:

Mitch dips a hand in one pocket and comes back with a black velvet box; they’re too far along for him to go down on one knee - and Auston proposed, anyhow - but it doesn’t stop Auston’s breath from hitching in his chest. There’s a beat where Mitchy’s eyes slide to his and catch, the corners of his mouth softening as he smiles, and he flips the box open without preamble. There’s a pair of rings nestled into the dark fabric, silver and gleaming and matching, but not. The bands are broad, one glinting with a subtle, brighter stripe of metal, and the other gently hammered and brushed to a satin finish. 

If Auston knew what was good for him, he’d turn around and walk right out of the chapel right there. In that sudden, near-blinding moment, everything crystallizes around him: this is real. He’s marrying Mitch Marner. More than the game-day suits they’re wearing, and the subtle pleased scent coming off Mitch when he’d touched Auston’s wrist and done up his cufflinks, more than the perfect desert sunbeam that makes Mitch’s hair go halo-golden around the edges - it’s the sight of those matching rings that makes his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth, blood gone heavy in his veins.

There’s no coming back from this, Auston feels it in his gut. He’s marrying his best friend.

The best friend he’s in love with.

When the moment comes, and Mitch repeats the oaths and slides the ring onto Auston’s finger, it feels miraculously lighter than the words ricocheting around Auston’s brain. He’s _ in love with Mitch. _ How didn't that register as a _ complication _ before they arrived at the altar?

“Gentlemen, I pronounce you husband and husband,” the pastor says, in his Graceland drawl, and Auston only has a half-second to process the end of the ceremony before Mitch’s lips are pressed to his, warm and feather-light and all too brief. 

The dizzying scent of him fills the air around Auston - the warm, summer-green smell of his obvious relief and excitement, the slight bitter tang of nerves - well, it’s a wedding, after all. Their wedding. 

Oh, god. They’re going to have to tell the team, aren’t they?

“Get out of your own head,” Mitch giggles at him, linking their fingers together as he turns and tugs Auston down the stairs, away from the altar. “We just got married! Man - I can’t thank you enough, you know -”

“Thank me after the game, Mitchy,” Auston flashes him a smile, unable to stop his lips from turning up at the sight of Mitch so obviously relaxed and relieved. It’s a far cry from how he looked a few weeks ago - marriage looks good on him. Auston swallows. “A goal would be a good wedding present, y’know.”

Mitch pouts at him, reaching a hand up to ruffle Auston’s hair and then remembering at the last second that, huh - it’s probably not something husbands do. A weight drops into Auston’s gut as he watches the emotions play out on Mitch’s face at the realization, until he settles on an amused purse of the lips. “Don’t jinx me,” Mitch warns, shaking their clasped hands. “You’re stuck with me now, remember? We’ve bound our fates and our luck together.”

“No need to be _ that _ dramatic,” Auston sighed, but Mitch isn’t wrong.

The weight of the ring on his finger is a reminder of that well enough.

\---

It feels like every inch of Mitch’s body - all six fucking feet of him - is pressed against Auston as they take a cab over to T-Mobil for the game. Not that it’s unusual, really - and not that Auston minds, despite the fact that they’re in the middle of the desert. He knows it’s something Mitch does when he’s nervous, even if he couldn’t smell the tense anticipation coming off his skin like waves of apple-bitter breeze. If there’s anything he’s used to, it’s Mitch being an octopus and the dry, dry desert heat.

Almost like home, except - well. 

“Think they’ll react okay?” Mitch wonders aloud, frowning down at his phone, and Auston doesn’t even need to ask who he’s referring to.

“Willy’s gonna be offended that he wasn’t invited, he loves weddings,” Auston says, rolling his eyes. “Even _ more _ offended when he finds out there was an Elvis present, and he wasn’t. We’re probably gonna get a lecture from Mo, though. Or Patty.”

“_And _ Patty,” Mitch says, giving Auston a grim smile. “Think they’ll buddy up to give a shovel talk?”

“Not just that - about how _ young _ we are to be getting married, and all that,” Auston hesitates for half a beat, licking his lips. “You weren’t… you weren’t planning on telling them that it’s not real, were you?”

“Oh - no,” Mitch says, and his eyebrows twitch into a small frown as he thinks. It probably shouldn’t be as cute as it is, but - well, Mitch _ is _ his husband now, isn’t Auston allowed to think such things?

_ Husband. _ Jesus Christ.

“Do you think it’ll be like - a shock?” Mitch asks, snapping Auston out of his own head. “That we didn’t even tell them we were dating, and now we secretly got married in Vegas?”

_ We weren’t dating, _ that awful, truthful voice in the back of Auston’s head whispers. _ We aren’t really married. _ Except, of course, they are - in all the ways that matter to the front office and management, anyway.

Not in the way that matters the most to Auston.

“I think,” Auston says carefully, measuring his words, “that it won’t be as much of a surprise to any of the boys as we might think.”

Mitch pouts at him again, and Auston tries to ignore the twist in his gut, and how the skin under the collar of his shirt has started to chafe with warm. He doesn’t dare move away - not when Mitch has always run hot. Not when the contact between them is a lifeline, with Auston so caught up in his own head.

Maybe it’s weird, but Mitch feels like the only thing that _ is _ real, right now.

\---

They decide to take the rings off for the game, but otherwise wear them around the team and - well, not exactly hide it, but not broadcast it, either. So, y’know, it’s only a matter of time before someone on the team _ notices. _ It’s not like hockey players are known to be polite and prudent; Auston personally ranks the NHL up with the shrewdest grandmothers in North America when it comes to the speed of gossip.

He’s thankful for the small reprieve they get for this one game, at least. 

Auston slides his ring off and into his pocket as he walks into T-Mobile, hangs his jacket very carefully in his stall. He has to stop himself from patting down the cloth, making sure the subtle weight of the ring is still there when he’s finished changing into his sweater. Not like he’s going to forget about it all, during the game, but it sure would be nice to. 

He catches Mitch’s eye from across the locker room, and resolutely does not think about how his heart leaps in his chest, how the smile slides easily onto his face at the sight of Mitch grinning at him and making dumb waggling eyebrows. It’s nothing out of the ordinary from them, it’s how they act around the locker room with each other all the time - but he’s helpless to the flutter of warmth under his ribs.

_ That’s _ something he can focus on in the game, rather than the bright polish of a silver ring, and the empty place on his finger that it now belongs. He’ll focus on getting Mitch to smile.

He’ll focus on getting Mitchy a goal.

\---

What happens is maybe even better than Auston scoring Mitchy a goal: Mitchy scores a goal _ himself. _ The shootout goal, in fact. 

There’s nothing like the way Auston’s heart leaps in his chest as he watches Mitch approach Lagace with careful speed, juggling the puck on his stick and then deking back and forth right in front of the net and masterfully dunking it in past the goalie’s left leg, a diagonal cut that leaves Lagace blindsided.

Auston whoops along with the crowd and the boys on the bench, the stadium a sudden roar. 

Mitch’s smile nearly splits his face when he skates by the bench for fist-bumps, finding Auston at the end and sliding onto the bench next to him. 

“Hell yeah, Marns!” he says, giving him a gentle sock in the shoulder-pad. “Comin’ in with the clutch shootout goal, look at you.”

“Just for you, hubby,” Mitch says as he slings an arm over Auston’s shoulder, beaming at him. Auston feels the heat rush to his face, flooding his cheeks in a bright blush. And oh, yeah, _ that _makes Naz give them a double-take from Auston’s other side, but it must not rank as too weird - at least when it comes to Mitch - because they’re all distracted by Vegas going next in the shootout only a moment later.

It isn’t long before the buzzer sounds for the end of the game, and there’s a flood of blue as everyone tumbles onto the ice to form a knot around Freddie and Naz and Mitch, shouting happily at each other and tapping helmets left and right. Mitch smells bright and happy, fresh-cut grass and lemons when Auston collides with him for a proper hug, twining an arm around his waist and - and feeling kind of daring, actually, when he leaves it there.

It’s only he and Mitch that know for now, but it won’t stay that way for very long, knowing the hockey world. Auston will take every small moment that he can get, before they’re under the microscope of the Toronto media.

“It was a beaut, Mitchy,” he says as they hop off the ice and head down the tunnel, shoulders brushing. Even through the layers of pads, it’s not hard to imagine the heat pouring off of Mitch. Auston swallows - maybe it’s just him and his Big Dumb Crush Thing, but he swears he _ can _ almost feel it. “Knew you could do it.”

He doesn’t say _ I knew you could do it even without the ring, so fuck ‘em, _ but he wants to. Mitch grins back at him, his eyes bright and knowing, and Auston knows he’s thinking the same thing.

He’ll just have to make a Beyonce joke later.

Auston fidgets with the ring on his finger for the entire fifteen minutes it takes for Mitch to change out of his game-day suit and into sweats and then knock obnoxiously on Auston’s door.

“Not that I don’t love Willy and whatever,” Mitch says, tossing his duffel bag artlessly in the corner by the desk, “but it _ is _ gonna be nice being road roomies, y’know? While we like - figure this shit out.”

“Yeah,” Auston says, trying not to frown as he attempts to parse what _ figure this shit out _ means, especially in context with the wildly vague hand gesture Mitch makes as he says it. “Not gonna make him any less suspicious, though. It’s _ Willy, _ after all.”

“And now Hyman’s stuck with him,” Mitch says with a shrug and a grin, toeing off his sliders - Jesus, he never seems to take long in making himself at home in Auston’s life. Auston tries and fails to not be completely charmed by it, which - well, it’s not like he was trying very _ hard. _

He swallows his nerves and wills himself to stop fidgeting with the ring. It’s just Mitch. His _ husband, _ Mitch Marner, who is also his best friend and all-around doofus. “What did you want to figure out, exactly?” he asks.

The look Mitch gives him implies that it’s Auston who is being the doofus. “My dude - my hubby, my dude, _ Auston, _ tonight’s the night. They think we’re going to -” another hand gesture, one that is decidedly more obscene but not really any less vague than the one before “- and the bond. The whole reason we’re doing this, remember?”

“I - yeah,” Auston replies, feeling his cheeks heat. “Of course I remember. You’re saying - tonight. I gotta bite you.”

“Some time before team breakfast, at least,” Mitch says through a yawn. Auston’s stomach flip-flops - Mitch seems so casual and accepting of it all, the charade they’re committing to for - what? A year? They didn’t even talk about that part; how the _ fuck _ is Auston going to survive an entire season - and entire _ year - _ being married to Mitch? Without dying or, worse than that, letting his feelings leak through the cracks in his _ we’re just best bros _ shell like a broken egg?

_ Newsflash_, he tells himself with only a small amount of bitterness, _ you signed up for this, asshole. _

And he’d do it again, if it means helping Mitch, if it means Mitch sprawling all over him like a bony starfish as he attempts to wiggle his way up the bed to sit against the headboard at Auston’s side. If it means seeing Mitch’s radiant, relieved smile as he grins up at Auston, upside-down, when he finds a comfortable spot with his head more or less pillowed in Auston’s lap instead.

“Right,” Auston says weakly, having sort of lost the thread of the conversation they’re meant to be having. Mitch smells warm and content and only a little nervous, a spiced-peach pie left on a sill to cool, a threat of rain on the breeze. “Biting. Right.”

“You busy right now?” Mitch jokes, or - he probably means it to come out as a joke, but the way Mitch’s eyes are just a little too wide and the words come out a little too fast are enough to tell Auston that maybe Mitch isn’t so aloof about this after all.

The words still strike him dumb, though. It doesn’t help that it immediately conjures an image of Auston kissing his way up to the nape of Mitch’s neck, spending time peppering his sweat-slicked back with open-mouthed kisses that let Auston taste how much Mitch wants it, the sound of Mitch’s throaty groan echoing in his ears when Auston finally sets his teeth against the sensitive skin of - 

Mitch snaps his fingers in Auston’s face, and looks annoyingly smug when Auston jerks out of his fantasy with all the grace of tripping off a dock and into freezing water. “Jeez, Matty. Way to go all cave-man alpha on me there.”

In this great war between Auston and his body’s ability to make his face flush as red as possible, Auston loses _ this _particular battle handily. 

“Sorry,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck - lord knows what Mitch is smelling on him now - and trying to be subtle about adjusting the semi he seems to perpetually have around Mitch these days. “I swear it’s not a - uh. It’s a dumb instinct thing. I don’t - you know.”

Thankfully, Mitch looks more wryly amused than annoyed with him - which, to be fair, Mitch has _ every _ right to be annoyed about this entire situation. “Yeah, I do. Really, though - wanna get it over with?”

Auston swallows dryly. “Sure,” he says, and leans back as Mitch moves to sit up - he learned his lesson from last week.

Doesn’t mean he’s in any way prepared for Mitch to go cross-legged in front of him and pull his hoodie over his head, baring the miles of his pale, freckled skin and firm hockey muscles to Auston’s eyes. 

At least Mitch’s head isn’t in his lap anymore.

“You know what to do?” Mitch says, but it comes out a little higher and more like a question. His eyes are so, so blue when he looks over his shoulder to catch Auston’s gaze - what’s Auston to do besides nod and put a comforting hand on Mitch’s hip as he scoots closer? For as nervous as they both are, that’s the right move, apparently; Mitch relaxes a little more, into his touch, and Auston squeezes his hip briefly as he leans in.

He doesn’t, like, _ mean _ to scent Mitch so openly, but with his skin laid out like a _ snack _ that Auston’s supposed to _ literally bite, _ he can’t help himself. His nose brushes gently up the crest of Mitch’s shoulder as he inhales, to that place where his neck and shoulder meet: the ripe, verdant smell of summer, earthy from the trees and bright from the grass and sunshine, tipping into the acid bite of too-young raspberries as Mitch’s nervous sweat breaks across his nose. He can’t stop his mouth from watering any more than he can stop himself from aching for Mitch in this moment: _ wanting _ him, of course, but hating that Mitch has been forced to this, rather than - rather than - 

_ It’s still just the two of us, _ Auston reminds himself as he exhales, and as much as he wishes he would move the earth for Mitch, change the way everyone sees omegas - it’s a drop in the bucket, but at least he can do this much.

Mitch’s breath hitches when Auston opens his mouth, lets his canines rest against the skin at Mitch’s nape for a beat before he starts to apply real pressure. 

Usually, if this were actually - if they were - well. Bond bites aren’t generally painful in the heat of the moment, and Auston can’t help the twist of his stomach when Mitch gasps - in surprise or pain, he can’t really tell. But then Mitch reaches behind him wildly, grasping at Auston’s knee with a clutching, white-knuckle grip, and somehow - it’s like a closed circuit. Somehow, beyond the strangeness of the moment, he knows that this is what Mitch wants.

It’s only a moment before Mitch is squeezing his leg and Auston lets his teeth sink just a little more, laves the ring of skin he can reach with his tongue to soothe the sober sting of it. Mitch whines low in his throat and Auston hums in return, relaxing his jaw as he pulls back to admire his handiwork.

Well, fuck. That sure is a bond bite all right - or, a bond-_ like _ bite, two half-moon sets of teeth like a red constellation framing the moles on Mitchy’s neck. He didn’t break the skin very hard - only a few of the marks have pinprick-beads of blood welling up, but it’s undeniably going to redden and bruise.

“How’s it look?” Mitch says, sounding a little like he’s speaking through a mouthful of cotton; when he tries to look at Auston over his shoulder, Auston lays a hand on his bare skin to stop him from moving too much.

_ It looks like you’re mine, _ Auston doesn’t say, so he makes a noise he hopes is vaguely affirmative. “Looks good,” he says, as evenly as he can, and wills his dick not to twitch when Mitch stretches carefully, tilting his head back and forth to test the pull of his skin around the bite. “Do you need - uh, should I get antiseptic for that?”

Mitch laughs, a little breathy, and eases himself off the bed. It’s amazing how graceful his limbs can be when he wants them to - it’s like that for hockey as well. Auston’s just used to the sorta-clumsy, definitely-clingy Mitch, and he tracks Mitch with his eyes as he heads towards the bathroom. “Don’t worry, I’ll just wash it real quick and it’ll heal up just fine.”

“‘Kay,” Auston says, and waits until Mitch is fully around the corner before he exhales heavily and falls back against the headboard. Day one of being married to Mitch Marner is done, Elvis-led ceremony and hockey game and bond bite and all. He resists the urge to flip onto his belly and shout an expletive into his pillows, because - fuck, how _ is _ he going to survive this?

What the hell was he even thinking to offer it?

“_Dude!” _ Mitch hollers from the bathroom, sounding unfairly amused and impressed. “Have you been holding out on telling me that you’re part-vampire or something? This is _ perfect!” _

Okay, scratch that. Auston _ does _ grab a pillow and shove his face into it, letting out a long-overdue groan. 

Only Mitch.

\---

Auston goes with Mitch when he meets with management, to show them the bite mark.

Well, sort of. Mitch is weirdly adamant about Auston not being in the room - he blushes an angry pink to the tips of his ears and speed-talks through his explanation of how it’s dehumanizing and embarrassing to be examined like cattle bearing a brand.

He waits in the empty locker room anyway, idly tossing a roll of tape between his hands so he won’t obsessively check his phone, waiting for the other shoe to drop and their marriage to leak to the Toronto press. It’s gotta happen at some point, he thinks. It’s a small miracle that none of the boys have figured it out yet, though you could probably hold everything the Leafs know about things besides hockey in a Dixie cup, which - 

Mitch storms into the locker room and right up to Auston’s stall, bending at the waist to press his face into Auston’s shoulder and give a muffled shout into the dense fabric of his hoodie. Auston blinks at the amount of Mitch he can see - the corded, tense tendons of his neck and bow-taut line of his shoulders and shaking hands - and carefully reaches up to settle a hand in Mitch’s hair.

“_Fuck this, _ ” Mitch says emphatically, pulling away and huffing a sharp exhale of frustration. “C’mon, drive us home. I wanna play COD and have a sundae the size of my _ face.” _

Auston doesn’t say _ that’s not on our diet plan. _ He stands and wraps an arm around Mitch’s shoulder - it seems like he needs it - and leads them out of the locker room and towards the garage. What Auston _ does _ say is, “Whatever you want, babe,” and he’s about to kick himself for the slip-up, but Mitch shoots him such a heartbreaking look of relief that all he can do is tug him closer, hip to hip. 

\--- 

It’s almost weird, how little changes after that. It feels a little bit like Auston’s world has been tipped on its axis and shaken as vigorously as a snow globe, and yet - everything is settling back into nearly the same place as it was before. The daily routine of hockey life more or less stays the same, the rhythm of breakfast and practice and travel and game that marches on, like there was nothing ground-shaking about Vegas in the slightest.

_ Almost. _ Auston can’t shake the little things - the metal weight of the ring on his finger, or the phantom sensation of Mitch’s lips against his. 

And not just that - that little hitch in Mitch’s breath when Auston had leaned forward to press his teeth into Mitch’s skin. It keeps echoing around in Auston’s head at the most inopportune and inappropriate moments, like when Mitchy is napping against his shoulder on the plane ride home, or when he’s supposed to be paying attention to whatever coach is drawing on the white board at practice.

Or when he’s stripping out of his gear, sweaty and ready to shower, and Willy makes a comically loud gasp somewhere behind him. It probably says something about Auston’s mental state, that his mind immediately casts back to that moment, to the smell of Mitch’s anticipation on his tongue as much as in his nose - 

“Is that,” Willy says, punctuating every word with as much drama as he can summon - which, well. It’s Willy. “A _ bite? _ Mitchell Marner, don’t tell me your boyish good looks got you laid in _ Vegas _and you didn’t tell me all about it?”

“Jealous, Nylander?” Mitch says, all laughing confidence, and Auston looks up from unlacing his skates to get a look at him - loose-limbed from practice, hair dark and damp around his nape from sweat, eyes glittering. It’s just by chance - is it by chance? - that Mitch glances his way, and the corner of his mouth curves up just a little bit more.

Heat slides down Auston’s spine, and he looks away to finish with his gear as Willy and Mitch heckle each other. That look - a little coy, a lot knowing, coming from _ Mitch _ \- like that bite mark is _ their little secret, winky-face, _ not _ an actual big-fucking-deal no-sex-implied _ secret. Auston is categorically not _ prepared _ to be on the receiving end of those kinds of looks from Mitch Marner, husband or no. 

Because that look - that's not really a look you share with your best friend, fake-married or fake-bonded or not. There isn't a universe in which a Mitch Marner looks at an Auston Matthews like that and Auston maintains anything remotely _ resembling _ chill. 

If this is the kind of thing that’s going to change between them, then - _ well. _ Auston’s got his work cut out for him. Namely: doing everything he can to keep his over-sized crush a secret from his best friend. Teammate. Husband. All of the above.

And _ crush _ is really putting it lightly.

\---

They’ve been back in Toronto a full week, and it feels like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Auston doesn’t want to, like, be the dude that looks the gift horse in the mouth - because really, he and Mitch have been pretty much able to pull this off. Management had been satisfied with the bond mark that’s now a series of brownish scabs on the back of Mitch’s neck; his performance in their recent games has seen the points pouring in, making up for the drought he had at the beginning of the season. And for better or worse, Auston has this - Mitch half-draped over his lap and stealing popcorn from his bowl, like he hadn’t eaten his own entire bag in the first fifteen minutes of the movie.

“You’re asking for a divorce,” Auston says, deadpan, after the fifth time it happens - Mitch really, really isn’t very sneaky. He moves the bowl to his other hand, cradling it against his hip - not that it’ll really stop Mitch and his freakishly long fingers, but still. But Mitch just giggles, bare toes curling where they’re pressed into the side of Auston’s thigh.

“You _ wouldn’t_,” he says, popping a stolen piece of popcorn into his mouth and grinning. “Then who would you have to carpool with to practice and games, huh?”

“Someone who doesn’t steal my popcorn,” Auston grumbles.

Mitch sighs, a touch dramatically, and collapses against Auston’s shoulder as he idly stretches for the bowl again. It’s not particularly subtle, but Auston has to stop himself from smiling. 

“Being husbands is pretty chill,” Mitch says. His fingertips skim the lip of the bowl, slick with melted butter. “Except for, y’know, the whole bond-marriage-ultimatum bullshit. Gender stereotypes are garbage.”

Auston hums in agreement. “And your game is on the upswing, which doesn’t even really prove them _ wrong _ about their awful misconceptions around omegas.”

There’s a beat where Mitch looks up at him, blue eyes wide and a little surprised but not _ displeased_, and his scent goes butter-cookie warm right under Auston’s nose. 

“Right!?” he says, indignant, and relaxes back into the arm of the couch, popcorn-less. “Not that I want to be playing shitty to make a point, that’s just dumb and bad for the team. But the whole thing is just ass-backwards.”

“Yeah,” Auston says, mouth pressed into a thin line. Like he can forget for even a minute that this isn’t what Mitch really wanted.

“At least I got a pretty sick consolation prize,” Mitch hums, and waggles his eyebrows when Auston meets his gaze. “Locking down Auston Matthews, formerly the most eligible bachelor on the Maple Leafs, the alpha most sought out by the lonely, single men and women of Toronto.”

He punctuates it with a flourish, and then sucks his butter-slick finger into his mouth, grinning around it at Auston’s expression - which is probably pretty well on the way to _ gob-smacked_, if Auston had any presence of mind to imagine what his face looks like. As it is, he concentrates everything he has on _ not _ popping a boner with Mitch more or less in his lap, and does the only reasonable thing he can think of in this situation.

He shoves Mitch off the couch.

\---

“Oh, hey,” Mitch says, dropping down onto the bench next to him mid-practice. It’s a little loud in the rink - scrimmage practices are like that, with all the shouting and the building’s natural echo - so Auston’s not surprised when Mitch leans closer to say something right into his ears. What he _ is _surprised about is the words that come out of Mitch’s mouth: “I think I don’t smell enough like you.”

Auston pulls back to give Mitch a furrowed-brow look of the total confusion and surprise he feels, and Mitch just rolls his eyes. Maybe Auston _ shouldn’t _ be so surprised about the shit that comes out of his mouth. Strange times, and all that. “Didn’t you just tell me that I smell like old sneakers and Brownie’s backup jock last week?”

“Your _ gear bag _ certainly does,” Mitch snorts, and they pause to shuffle down the bench as the line changes. “I mean, like. Y’know.”

And the thing is: Auston_ does _ know. But they spend so much time together that, well - he’s used to Mitch’s scent. He can always smell him when he comes into the room, of course, that summer-sweet green and grassy sunshine and breeze off the lake, but maybe for that reason he can’t tell if Mitch’s scent has changed significantly since they got... married.

Jesus, that still feels strange to say.

Still - Mitch is right in that if they had really bonded, their scents would change - management’s probably expecting it. As much as they hang out in each other’s company, even with Mitch draped all over Auston’s person, that might not be enough.

“Take my hoodie after practice,” Auston mumbles, casting his eyes back out over the ice, a vain attempt to ignore the heat in his cheeks. 

Mitch, being casually, easily Mitch, must take that for a bros-being-bros, normal hockey buddies thing to do. Y’know, like bros just do sometimes. To smell more like each other in that normal bro we-need-to-pretend-to-be-bonded way.

“Thanks, babe,” he says - and to be fair, he has called Auston that before - and then totally shatters the illusion of normal hockey bro-ness by pressing a quick kiss to the top of Auston’s helmet.

Auston’s still slack-jawed when coach calls their names for a line shift, and, well. 

That’s definitely new.

\---

Actually, it’s amazing how new it is until it isn’t.

Auston wouldn’t have said before that he, personally, was very free with his affections. His friends know that he likes them by virtue of him choosing to spend his free time with them - and really, when you’re a professional hockey player, time is a precious commodity in short supply. He gives out bro-hugs and cellies like the best of them, sure. It’s a lot easier than words.

Auston is starting to think that words might not be a bad idea right about now, given with how things with Mitch have progressed in such a short span of time.

He blames it on the fact that it seems to all happen at once. It’s like the seasons changing - gradual is great, totally fine, absolutely normal. Gives you time to get used to Canada’s bitter cold and biting winds off the lake; if winter came to Toronto all at once, everyone would freeze their nuts off and realize why it’s an absurd idea to live there over the winter, and the moose would take over Ontario’s provincial government.

Luckily for Auston, (and unfortunate for the moose), the seasons are much slower to change than that.

Mitch Marner is, by definition, anything but gradual.

It’s probably a little bit Auston’s own fault, for being so quick to agree to the clothes-sharing, but it’s easy to say yes to Mitch. It’s not like their wardrobe varies too greatly between them, either - Mitch’s god-awful sense of quote-unquote _ fashion _aside, a majority of what they both wear is Maple Leaf Blue and sports-related. Lending Mitch his hoodie and then, later, a shirsey when Mitch accidentally dumps Gatorade down his front while playing ‘Chel is as simple as anything.

Auston wasn’t considering the consequences _ then _ , but he sure is _ now. _

Because _ now _ is watching Mitch shuffle out of the showers with a towel wrapped around his waist, his sliders almost coming off his feet because he was most certainly kicking at Matty again just moments ago, and he’s flushed and damp and happy and _ smells _ happy, and then he reaches into his stall and pulls out a soft blue hoodie with the number 34 emblazoned on the back, right under Auston’s name - 

He has to bury his face in his towel and pretend to be drying his hair so that none of the guys catch how his face is suddenly, infuriatingly aflame. It’s not as if they talked about last names with the fake-marriage, really, what with it _ being fake _, but the sight of Mitchy in his jersey…

It’s a lot. It’s _ way _ more than Auston expected the sight to be.

And that’s even before Auston catches a glimpse of Mitch surreptitiously lifting the collar to his nose and sniffing when he thinks no one’s looking, sighing and smiling to himself like - 

Auston can’t do this for the rest of the season. He isn’t going to survive this.

\---

Oh, and that’s only the _ half _ of it. 

No, it’s not enough that Mitch is smelling more and more like him every day, with every time he hangs out at Auston’s place and leaves with another part of his wardrobe - both fresh and worn, whether he asks Auston outright or Auston finds something missing later, and _ god, _ that’s more than enough for his fraying psyche as it is.

But Mitch never does anything by halves, and it’s like once the switch is flipped, that’s that. And _ unlike _ Auston, Mitch was a pretty affectionate and cuddly person to begin with.

Now - now, Auston’s not sure where the line between fantasy and reality is, anymore.

Mitch presses kisses onto Auston’s hooded head, when he’s attempting to nap on the bus while they’re stuck in traffic coming back from a game. He blows Auston kisses from across the rink during practice, cuddles up against Auston’s shoulder to see what he’s looking at on his phone or steal the remote. He grabs the last bits of Auston’s breakfast off his plate when it’s clear he isn’t going to finish it himself, doesn’t bother asking what Auston wants from Starbucks because he _ knows, _ and then makes sure the barista draws a little heart next to his name. Or maybe Mitch does that himself, Christ. 

And some of that wouldn’t be totally out-of-this-world behaviour for Mitch, in a world in which they weren’t _fake_ _married_ and Mitch _didn’t smell like him all the time_. But as it is - well.

Auston knows this marriage isn’t real. He tells himself that on a daily basis, no matter how heavy the ring on his finger feels, a warm weight that ties him to the present. It’s not real, not like his friendship with Mitch is - his best friend, the one that’s off-limits, who he is doing a very important favor for and has a duty _ not _to fuck it up, in more ways than one.

So he deals with it. That’s the one option he has: deal with it, live with it - and in his own head, that sounds like it’s such a burden, to spend time with his best friend and receive his love.

And, well. It would be one thing if it all was _ real, _ wouldn’t it.

\---

“Hey, check this out,” Mitch says, leaning into Auston’s personal space as they get on the elevator together, heading up to their hotel room for a pre-game nap. 

A nap _together._ Because that's a thing that they do, now. This is Auston's actual life.

He tilts his screen in Auston’s direction, grinning in anticipation of Auston’s response, eyes bright even in the fluorescent lighting of the elevator. This close, Auston can tell how happy he is from the smell - well, what he can get from underneath his _ own _ scent, since Mitchy grabbed his sweatshirt quote-unquote “ _ by accident” _ as they were getting on the bus. 

Auston resists wrinkling his nose. It's really nothing to write home about. His own scent, that is. Most of the time, Auston knows he smells like hockey - sometimes something cinnamon-y, but still more or less uninteresting. It's only made tolerable by Mitch's scent overlaid on his own, and Auston can't even say for certain that's actually a smell thing, or if it's a dumb paleolithic alpha-brain thing.

Anyway - he can barely keep his attention focused on the screen and whatever Mitch expects him to laugh at, with how quickly his brain and nose dial in to the scent Mitch is putting out. Is it normal that he smells so strong? Auston feels his eyebrows twitch into a frown, and tries to school his face as best he can; that's not quite normal, is it? He knows what Mitch smells like when he's happy, sure, but to be so certain of it - 

Mitch laughs, and it kick-starts Auston's brain again - he manages to grin and glance up at Mitch just in time to see him beaming and awaiting Auston's reaction, cheeks flushed and eyes creased with mirth. Auston swallows. He really has no business being this cute from so close.

“What’s up with you?” Mitch asks, and Auston has to pull his eyes away from the column of Mitch’s throat, exposed by the collar of the hoodie. His hoodie. “You’re like, super distracted. More than usual.”

“Thanks,” Auston rolls his eyes, and tousles Mitch’s hair as he gets out of the elevator for the hell of it. He feels a little warmer than usual - at least to what Auston senses, but hockey players run warm. That’s normal, with all the muscle mass. “Just got a lot on my mind, I guess.”

  
“You can always come to me, hubby,” Mitch taps a hand to his own chest, doing that thing where he just _ smiles _ at Auston with those too-bright eyes all clear and honest, and Auston almost can’t take it. The word _ hubby _ sends an involuntary shudder down his spine, and he can’t say why. Why can’t he just _ deal _?

“Probably, y’know,” Auston shrugs, “pre-game stuff. I’ll be fine after a nap.”

“Pre-game stuff?” Mitch raises his eyebrows, maintaining a look of skepticism as Auston fishes his room key out of his pocket, “Against the Panthers? Really?”

Okay, that does sound a little ridiculous. “Oh, so now that you’re racking up points again hockey’s all fun and games?” he says, just to see Mitch’s expression.

“Hockey _ is _ a game, Matty,” Mitch says with a gusty sigh, “and what can I say? I’m a changed man now. Marriage does that to you.”

Auston carefully holds his breath, holds in his words until the hotel room door is shut behind them. He presses his lips into a thin line, fighting with whether or not he should say it. It makes something heavy curl in his gut, to hear Mitch say that. And not in a good way. 

He turns slowly as he reaches the center of the room, crossing his arms over his chest. “You - you can’t really think that, Mitchy. That your hockey actually got better because we got married, all that bullshit management was saying.”

Mitch sighs again, something quieter this time; he sets his phone aside carefully as he sits on the awful floral-patterned bedspread, shoulders hunched as he bends, leans his forearms on his knees. “Of course I don’t, not really. As much as they’ve been like - fuck, validated about it because I _ have _ been doing better.”

“That’s all you, Marns,” Auston says, “All you and all the hard work.”

“Thanks,” Mitch says, but his smile is brief. 

“I mean, I do know that. It's nice to feel like they aren't on my back so much, and that I'm not in danger of being sent down -"

"There's no chance of that now," Auston nods, feeling some of the tension in his spine unwind. "You've been solidly getting points, they can't argue with metrics - you belong on this team as much as any of us, no need for the ring to make it that way."

"Yeah, well," Mitch ducks his head at the praise, and Auston's nostrils flare as his pleased scent, heady and bright, fills the room. God, he smells - good. "At least it has been good, right? Being fake-married to me?"

Auston swallows thickly, and he must take a beat too long to reply, because Mitch looks away from the carpet and up at him with keen, searching eyes.

"It's -" Auston starts, and has to swallow down how quickly his heart jumps to his throat at the sight of Mitch's expression. "You know I would've done anything to help you, Mitchy. You're my - you're my best friend."

That seems to mollify Mitch - but only a little; he ducks his head again, hands wringing over themselves as he fidgets, looking nearly as nervous as Auston feels. Since when has Mitch so clearly seen down to the heart of what Auston's feeling? His heart throbs in his chest, aching; there's no way Mitch really wants to hear what Auston truly wants to say, but he's not sure he can hold it back much longer. Not under the onslaught of Mitch's bright gaze, and the echo of something between them.

"That's not exactly what I asked," Mitch says softly, hoarsely.

Auston inhales, deep, and holds the breath in his chest as he weighs out how to reply. Mitch's scent is starting to really flood the room, the citrus tang of his nervousness on top of his naturally clear, breezy scent. Right now, it only makes Auston's stomach churn. He licks his lips, tries to ignore how Mitch's eyes track the movement.

"It's just - it's hard, you know? I didn't think it would be so hard."

Mitch makes a face, something too close to _crushed_ that instantly turns Auston's stomach. "I wouldn't have asked…"

"I proposed to _ you_, numbskull, this was my choice, and - and let me _ finish _. What I meant was that...it's been hard because of me, not because of you. Because… it's hard to have what you've always wanted, but know that it isn't really real. That it isn't really yours. Not for keeps."

Mitch stares.

Mitch’s eyes are so wide that Auston has to slide his gaze away from him to the ugly bedside lamp between the two mattresses, heart lodged in his throat and squeezing tighter and tighter the longer the silence stretches. He knows his face is heating, he can feel it; god, he doesn’t even want to imagine the kind of scent he’s putting out into the tiny hotel room like an over-zealous diffuser plug-in.

Christ. _ Christ. _ Leave it to Mitch to wrench it out of him like this. Auston’s uncomfortably aware of Mitch’s bright eyes boring into the side of his face, and the way sweat has started to dampen the nape of his neck underneath his backwards snapback as Mitch doesn’t answer. He grits his teeth, resisting the urge to screw his eyes shut. It’s _ Mitch _, what’s the worst thing that can happen?

Well, no shit, the worst thing that could happen is that he loses his best friend and teammate, that Mitch is outraged or disgusted that Auston hasn’t been able to tread the line, that like a stereotypical meat-headed alpha he wasn’t able to resist when an omega - when Mitch - 

“You’ve always wanted...me?”

The quiet tremor in Mitch’s voice does him in, the disbelief in his tone and the softness of the question spoken into the air between them. Auston can’t help the way his eyes snap back to Mitch’s face and parted lips, the flush high on the arches of his cheeks.

But there’s - lord in heaven, he’s going to die if he’s reading this wrong - there’s a thread of hopefulness in Mitch’s tone, too, a smell of sweetness among the lemon-bitter of his nervousness.

He uncrosses his arms, takes a few swaying steps steps forward while barely feeling his feet. It’s as natural as breathing to crouch next to the bed until his face is level with Mitch’s, and - yeah, up close with his wide, blue eyes and the tangy-sweet scent he’s giving off, Auston’s a little more confident.

Not like he can do anything but bare his heart, anyway.

“Mitch,” he breathes, voice catching in his throat, “there’s not a universe where I would have ever said no to you when you asked me to marry you. If you’d asked me _ anything. _ I’d always say yes. I’m -”

_ In love with you, _ Auston doesn’t get to say, because Mitch hauls him in by the collar of his hoodie and seals their lips together.

_ Oh. _

Mitch's lips are soft and a little chapped, as plush against his as Auston has always imagined - and he's pictured kissing Mitch for so long, but the real deal scatters every fantasy away. He tries to keep it chaste, focus on the gentle brush of Mitch's eyelashes against his cheek and the soft noise in his throat when Auston tries to pull away, but Mitch is having none of it. He gasps a breath when they part and dives back in, licking against the seam of Auston's mouth and clutching at his hoodie, his hair, his shoulder - anything his seeking fingers can reach.

"I can't believe-" he says against Auston's lips, interrupted by a sigh as Auston twines an arm around his neck, "you never said you -"

“You’re my _ best friend, _ Mitchy,” Auston says, almost surprised at how rough his voice has become in the span of moments, “I couldn’t risk - and it was so important to you to make sure this worked and that you stayed with the team - “

"_Auston_," Mitch whines, tilting his head to bare his neck as Auston's lips drift down to explore it. "Shut _ up, _ like I would have ever asked anybody else." 

The words are nearly enough to make Auston dizzy - but maybe that's his blood rushing south, or the general effect Mitch had on his person. Mitch's thighs fall open beautifully when Auston puts a hand on his knee and presses forward, between Mitch's legs where he sits on the edge of the bed, and _ oh, _ does that makes Auston's pulse spike. It's like they were made to fit together like this, with Mitch's long limbs that can wrap all the way around Auston's bulk, how much noise he makes compared to Auston's quiet reverence.

Well, quiet for now. Knowing how his time with Mitch usually goes, Auston has no doubt that Mitch will get him talking. Or - making some kind of noise. Not like he can embarrass himself any further, he thinks giddly. Mitch is in his arms, amazingly responsive to every nibble and kiss he presses into his neck, mapping every inch exposed to him. 

And Mitch isn't one for restraint when it comes to noise. Auston’s delighted that this apparently carries over to amorous activities.

“You just,” Auston says against Mitch’s neck, mouthing along the muscular arch of it, finding that he can’t keep the lid on _ any _ of these words, “you smell so good - and it’s not that you’re, y’know - you’ve always been _ Mitch _ to me first, it’s not about - but you’ve always smelled so good to me, I didn’t think I was allowed to let myself want this.”

Mitch swallows visibly at his words, pupils blown wide when Auston pulls back far enough to look. "You always treat me like a person first," he says, and Auston's heart breaks a little more for him. "With you I can be just...me. That's not just why I picked you; it's why I fell in love with you in the first place."

And doesn't that hit like a blow to the chest.

Auston can't take it; why is this so lovely and agonizing at the same time? It feels like his chest would crack and cave in, if his heart wasn't in danger of bursting with lightness at hearing that Mitch feels - that he feels the _ same _. He can feel his own pulse echoing through his entire body, from the heat in his cheeks to his fingertips, all of it throbbing and warm.

"_Mitch_," Auston pleads, and Mitch laughs, breathlessly. His smile lights up the whole room, catches on everything whirling in Auston's head like a prism. It's so naturally Mitch to watch him rub a hand on the back of his neck, not really embarrassed at all, lips tugged into a wide smile, and -

"Hold up," Auston says, catching his wrist as Mitch reaches for him again. He swallows, trying to ignore the trickle of sweat along his back and the pungent sweetness of Mitch's scent, his happiness, filling the room. It's like everything about this moment was crafted to distract him. "The - the mark. Can I see…?"

Okay, that actually _ does _ make Mitch embarrassed. He flushes even more - Auston didn't think it was possible - but still moves to pull off his hoodie, half-twisting so Auston can look at the nape of his neck.

Oh, and that's - the flush on Mitch's face goes all the way down to his mole-freckled chest, bringing color to his skin in a way that only brings all of Auston's filthy daydreams back into the light. His skin is perfect for marking, all lean muscle, and Auston wants to map the constellation of freckles on Mitch's belly and chest with his mouth. 

Later, though. Hopefully not _ much _ later.

He puts a hand on Mitch's shoulder to steady himself as he leans in for a look, and can't stop the hitch in his breath.

"I know I should've told you," Mitch exhales, trying to peer back at Auston as best he can, "but it happened really slowly - you think it's really…?"

"I mean," Auston stammers, staring at the silvery scar tissue that outlines the bite mark he'd left _ weeks _ ago. It's still a near-perfect imprint of his teeth, spanning the width of Mitch's nape, exactly as he had done back in Vegas. He didn't think - maybe he hadn't paid enough attention to it; who doesn't notice that they are _ bonded? _ He tries to control the tremor in his voice. "I haven't heard of anybody, uh, _ bonding _ without the rest of it, but I guess it's not impossible."

Mitch gently turns back around, falling onto his back on the mattress and grabbing Auston's shoulder so that he's pulled down with him. "I couldn't see it very well, so I didn't think much of it - until, y'know, I saw how it scarred like a proper bond bite. Nothing felt really different between us, but something must have changed."

"The change was that I bit you," Auston muses dryly. "The loving you hasn't been new in a long time."

The smile that breaks out on Mitch's face is like watching the sun come out from behind a cloud: bright and warm, settling something in Auston's chest that he can't put his finger on - but it feels right. Mitch squirms a little on the duvet, getting comfortable, looping his arms around Auston's neck with a dramatic flair.

"You’re gonna get me all hot and bothered, talking like that,” Mitch grins, petting at the nape of Auston’s neck and the damp hair there. It’s like, now that he knows he can touch, his hands can’t stay still - not that he didn’t take every opportunity to be touchy-feely with Auston _ before _ all this came out. “About your _ feelings _ and everything _ . _ Might get a guy wet.”

“You aren’t already?” Auston raises an eyebrow and smirks, shifting over Mitch so that their hips better align - and he doesn’t intend to, not really, but when he lets Mitch take more of his weight there’s an undeniable hardness under his own, through the layers of sweatpants and basketball shorts. They groan in unison and Auston grits his teeth, feeling a ripple of delicious heat run down his spine. It feels like every inch of his skin is over-sensitive to Mitch’s touch, tuned like a radio to wherever their skin is in contact. It’s as heady as their mixing scents, knowing that he can do this to Mitch - make him hard and wanting. 

Auston can admit to himself that it’s doing a lot for him - having Mitch flushed and arching underneath him, grinning up at him all the while, smelling as much like Auston as he does himself for how much they’ve been sharing clothes. It’s hard not to smile when he grinds down again, anchoring his hands on either side of Mitch’s slim hims, watching as Mitch’s expression goes from coy to rapturous at the sensation.

“That’s not _ fair _ ,” Mitch whines, pouting up at Auston. Like that’s going to make a difference - Auston already has a laundry list of things he wants to do to make Mitch feel good, and _ fairness _ doesn’t factor into it. “You’re my _ husband _, aren’t you supposed to treat me right and show me a good time?”

“Oh, that’s exactly what I plan to do,” Auston purrs, leaning down again to lave a long stripe up the side of Mitch’s throat, rolling his hips as he presses him into the mattress.

And really, after that - he can’t be blamed for the fact that they end up kissing, and kissing, and kissing - not when it’s so long overdue. God, Mitch tastes as good as he smells - better, even; his scent is so strongly flooding their little hotel room that Auston can practically taste the lemonade across his tongue - 

“Mitch,” he mumbles into the kiss, trying to form words through the fog of desire in his brain, and the addicting taste of Mitch's mouth. "Mitch, are you in heat?"

"No," Mitch says, but Auston hears the uncertainty in his voice, feels the crease of his eyebrows as he frowns. "I don't think...I can't be, right?"

But when Auston pulls away and opens his eyes to look down at Mitch, it's pretty hard to deny the truth right in front of him. It _ does _ explain the lovely flush down Mitch's chest, why he's smelled so strong all evening, the source of the jittery energy in how he hasn't stopped moving since they entered the room. 

"I mean," Auston starts, unable to stop the smile that blooms across his face as Mitch blushes even further, the rosy hue peaking on his cheeks and across the bridge of his nose. It makes the blue of his eyes stand out even brighter, and after a moment he can't help but grin up at Auston in return. And of course stupidly grinning at each other turns to giggles turns to outright laughter - at each other, at themselves, at the ridiculousness of where they find themselves and the pure, joyful high of finding out that their love is returned. Auston doesn’t even try to suppress the grin on his face.

“I guess the timing could be worse,” Mitch giggles, wriggling underneath Auston again - and definitely on purpose; Auston’s fairly sure, now, that the flush on Mitch’s cheeks and the glint in his eye aren’t excitement about_ hockey. _ “I am going to ask that you take off your wedding ring before you finger me, though. That shit’s sacred.”

Auston laughs, bright and surprised, and straddles Mitch’s thighs so he can work the ring off his finger. “It’s not romantic, to be wearing our rings the first time I get you through a heat and knot you?”

Mitch _ actually _ hesitates for a moment at that, that little crease appearing between his eyebrows, and Auston chuckles. “Here -” he says, grabbing Mitch’s hand to lace their fingers, and that seems to do the trick. At least, it’s worth it to see the soft, smitten smile that blooms across Mitch’s face, accompanied by a fresh rush of cut grass and lake breeze and sunshine in his scent.

“We really did this out of order, huh,” Auston says, aware that his mouth is doing something like beaming down at Mitch - who looks like his face might split from how wide he’s smiling. “Married before dating, bonded before sharing a heat or talking about what we feel - think you can still deal with having kind of a numbskull alpha for a husband?”

Mitch’s eyes are positively twinkling, and the corner of his mouth quirks up in a way that Auston _ knows _ means he’s in for some trouble. “You know,” he says, “I think I can find it in me.”

He punctuates his words with a lascivious roll of his hips, and honestly - Auston really can’t be blamed for how he ends up kissing Mitch, after that.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sure Lake Ontario doesn't smell as good as I described Mitch as smelling, but you know what? I'm fine with living in a reality where it has a nice lake smell.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [venvephe!](http://venvephe.tumblr.com/)  
I'm also [venvephe](https://www.pillowfort.io/venvephe) over on pillowfort!  
For hockey-focused content, I'm [tigerseguin91!](http://tigerseguin91.tumblr.com/)
> 
> I'm also on twitter! Find me there at: @[venvephe](https://twitter.com/venvephe) and @[ven_writes](https://twitter.com/ven_writes)


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